


a persistent tick

by inK_AddicTion



Category: Guardians of Childhood - Fandom, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M, Mim's a little shit, Sandy's out of his mind, crossposted from my tumblr, titled there as "returned from the dead kiss"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inK_AddicTion/pseuds/inK_AddicTion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sandy regularly returns from the dead, and has a tendency to show up wherever Pitch is. Which would be fine, even entertaining, if he was quite... all there, every time he returned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a persistent tick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sylphidine_Gallimaufry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylphidine_Gallimaufry/gifts).



“You’re like a tick,” said Pitch, not bothering to look up from his book. “Every time I think you’re finally gone for good, you return to plague me. Go on, who was it this time? The Four Horsemen? Some powerful fae? Another completely innocent spirit only trying to regain power and make a name for themselves? If only you _Guardians_ stopped picking fights with spirits able to rip you in two, this would not be an issue.”

It wouldn’t have even been so bad, Sandy returning from death time and time again (he _was_ the only Guardian to put up a decent fight), if it wasn’t that somehow he _always_ picked the general vicinity of wherever Pitch was. Yet still, even _that_ wouldn’t have been terrible (even a rousing fight was welcome to break the monotony of the lair), if it wasn’t for the fact that Sandy was…well, never quite _right_ when he first came back.

 _It’s so bright down here!_ Sandy crowed, leaping onto the (black) coffee table beside Pitch’s (black) sofa and spinning around to indicate the whole (black) room. The Sandman was alight with vigour, his merry eyes shining like copper coins and his glow so brilliant that Pitch almost winced to look at him directly. He bounced onto Pitch’s knees, grinning over the top of Pitch’s book until he sighed and put it aside, resigning himself to finishing the chapter at a later date.

“ _What do you want.”_

 _Life is beautiful. You are beautiful. Everything is beautiful and you are the beautiful-est._ Sandy told him, big round eyes shining with sincerity.

He slid into Pitch’s lap, and Pitch’s heart gave an irregular thump at the way Sandy’s body nestled comfortably against his own, so yielding and incandescent with heat and brightness compared to Pitch, skinny, lanky and dark thing that he was. Small, hot palms cupped his cheeks, turning his face back to look at Sandy insistently. The little dreamweaver _beamed,_ as if Pitch was the single most glorious thing he had ever seen, and despite his best attempts Pitch felt his cheeks flushing, though he made no move to push Sandy away. Not yet.

It had been…so very long.

“You are making no sense at all, Sandman,” said Pitch a little dryly, swallowing uncomfortably when Sandy cocked his head teasingly.

His Cheshire grin warped into something a little more intense, soft and tenderly worshipful, leaning in until their foreheads were pressed together. His eyes, dark and warm like rich honey, coupled with his slightly parted lips, soft and full, the demanding heat of his warm, plush body against Pitch’s unforgiving angles were all doing things to Pitch he really would rather they weren’t.

Shame coursed through him, the Sandman was his _enemy,_ Pitch should not be allowing such tenderness from him. He should be using this moment against him, tricking Sandy’s momentary just returned delusional mind into a trap.

He didn’t. He never did.

Pitch did his best to lean back. “Why must you always do th- _mm!”_

Sandy kissed him, forcefully stopping his words with his lips. He was never gentle, hungry and demanding as if Pitch were a well of water and Sandy quenching an ancient thirst. Soft crème assaulted his senses as Sandy invaded his mouth, plundered it, shudders running through his small portly frame. Sandy tasted sweet; of course he did, Pitch thought bitterly.

Automatically, his dark hands settled on Sandy’s ample hips, involuntarily squeezing so hard his fingers dug into flesh painfully. Sandy was the perfect armful, he noticed irrelevantly, and the pressure of his weight against Pitch’s lap felt neither too heavy nor too light. Solid. Grounding. Needed, in the lines of white fire where their lips connected, blurring Pitch’s mind into a mess of contradiction and _don’t stop, this is wrong._ Sandy caught Pitch’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucked, his hips rocking against Pitch in a manner that made stars explode in his vision. A groan choked in his throat, and the sound woke Pitch from his stupor.

_That’s enough of that._

“No-”

Sandy’s mouth latched onto his neck and Pitch flailed, briefly losing his train of thought.

 _Oh yes, we’re arch-enemies, he’s out of his mind, and this is_ not _happening._

He fisted his hands in Sandy’s hair, yanking the dreamweaver’s lips away from his neck and hurriedly standing. Pitch strode to the nearest shadow, talking as quickly as he could to overwhelm any more ridiculous proclamations.

“Yes, I’m the most beautiful creature in the world-”

_-The universe!_

“-we are interconnected-”

_-My heart is your heart!_

“-you are _literally_ high on life right now-”

_-I love you._

“No you don’t, you _hate me,_ and you will remember that shortly,” Pitch snarled with as much venom as he could muster.

They reappeared on a clifftop not far from the current location of the Isle of Sleepy Sands, waves crashing against the dark, night-stained rock and the Moon watching with amusement from far above, the filament black as tar. Pebbles and brush crunched as Pitch threw Sandy to the ground, feeling a brief pang of guilt when Sandy grabbed for him desperately, his palms marred with the rough ground.

 _Don’t leave me, please don’t go,_ Sandy begged, his voice the crispness of new sheets, the sigh of a restful sleeper at midnight, but his eyes the anguish of a star ripped from the heavens all over again.

His mouth formed words, _I’m sorry,_ but Pitch hesitated and swallowed them back. _He won’t care in a few minutes if you apologised or not,_ he reminded himself, hardening the reviled weakness inside. Pitch stepped back, helpless, and shrank into shadow. He was just in time.

Sandy shook his head, as if a particularly annoying gnat had landed on his cheek, and Pitch saw the moment his mind returned to him, for he frowned at the sky in puzzlement before offering a brief, almost absent smile to the Moon.

Heart in mouth, Pitch pulled the shadows close to him and tried not to breathe too much lest it alert Sandy to his presence. Sandy’s powerful ochre gaze, fierce and relentless once more, swept the darkness as if he half-expected to find something there. A moment passed before he evidently shook the creeping sensation off.

Nonchalantly, the dreamweaver stepped off the cliff edge and rose on a cloud of golden sand, disappearing quickly into the dark sky. Only once even the slightest glimmer of gold had vanished from the horizon did Pitch emerge from his hiding place.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Pitch muttered to the Moon, brushing off a bit of corrupted sand that had rubbed off on his robe. His lips burned, and Pitch touched his fingers to the dry skin with a wince. Dreams were as poisonous to nightmares as a dark arrow buried in a dreamweaver’s unsuspecting back.

Sandy never remembered the first few minutes after he returned from death.

Pitch still couldn’t decide if he envied Sandy that ignorance or not.


End file.
